


either help, or do not harm

by scramjets



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 05:52:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11178414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scramjets/pseuds/scramjets
Summary: The one story Jim Kirk may or may not tell at parties:I was stuck in the overnight cell with this guy, right--.





	either help, or do not harm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quixotesque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixotesque/gifts).



> Ty, Quix, for cheerleading me through this fic!

The cell door opens and another man is shoved in. He goes down like a sack of bricks, landing hard on his hands and knees, and Jim winces because the concrete is rough and uneven. On bare palms it hurts. Lucky for the man’s jeans though. Padding’s padding even if it’s only a thin layer of denim. 

“You can cool your head there,” the officer says. Gerald or Jack or something, with wood coloured eyes, a buzz cut, and a distinctive stride. 

The bars rattle as he grinds the key in the lock, and Officer Gerald or Jack or something heads off.

The man curses and hauls himself around so he’s sitting on his ass with his feet planted on the floor, head bowed over his clasped hands. There’s a tremor in his grasp that’s obvious enough for Jim to notice and go, “Hey.” 

Then, once the man’s head jerks up, eyes wild before they land on him, Jim goes, “You alright?”

The moment of surprise, or terror, or terrified-surprise collapses on the man’s face, and he scowls and bows his head again. 

Jim’s a little stiff, but he manages to lean from where he’s sitting against the wall, the patch of it warm from his back now, chasing for an angle to see the man’s face. The man’s hands tighten.

“‘S alright,” Jim says. “This won’t even go on your record if you’re worried. Overnight cell. I’d be more concerned if you were in the ones round the back.”

“Sounds like you know the place,” the man snaps, and Jim barks out a laugh that echoes in the small space, and the man’s shoulders tighten up more, hunching up around his ears.

“Yeah,” Jim says. And he sniffs. “Yeah, sure. If you wanna, I’m a little familiar. What’re you in for?”

The man ignores him.

“That bad, huh?” 

No response.

The sounds from the office float through the bars. The filing cabinet opening and snapping shut. Gerald talking on the phone. The radio cranked up, tuned to something unrecognisable but catchy that Jim ends up tapping his fingers to.

Jim’s not exactly looking, attention fixed to a point on the opposite wall, but he does notice when the man shifts. When he unwinds a little, flexes his knees, hissing as he stretches out.

And Jim plays it out in his head, the way the man will pull up to a stand and proceed to do a recon of the situation: check the corners of the cell, then pass over him, then head to the bars to wind his hands around them, face pressed up against them in an effort to snatch a glance of the bullpen. And it’s there where the man will categorize himself as one or the other of two kinds of people. The one who’ll call out to ‘talk for a minute’ and get ‘everything cleared up’, or the other who’ll accept the parameters of their fate and wait it out. 

Instead what happens is that the man stops mid-rise and says, “Good god, man.”

Jim can’t say he’s expecting it, so his response is little more than a belated, “Huh?”

The man gestures to his own face, then his eyes flick to the bars and back to Jim. “Was it--?”

“Gerald? Nah,” Jim says. “Got this at the bar.” 

And he sniffs again because it really does feel like his nose is still bleeding. He touches just above his upper lip and checks his fingers. Nothing but black flakes of dried blood that Jim wipes off on his jeans.

“Jesus Christ.” The man hauls himself to the bars. “Officer. _Officer_.”

Jim zones out while the man argues with Jack (Gerald?), only to be startled back at the telltale grate of the bars opening. 

The man gives Gerald or Jack a terse, “Thanks,” that’s only a thanks in theory, and the bars are shut again, Gerald heading back to his office and his music.

Jim’s sure he’s muttering something nasty under his breath, but that could also be the man, now that he thinks about it, as he crosses the small cell to stop right in front of him. Jim tilts his head up. Or tries to, everything’s still too tight or too raw, and the movement sends a ripple of pain through his head, neck, shoulders. Jim can’t control the flinch.

“Jesus.” The man goes as he comes down on his knees before him. “Jesus. You should be in a hospital, not a--” and he breaks off to gesture at the bricks, at the concrete, the bars. 

“Aw,” Jim drags it out. “So you do care.”

“Yeah,” he says, terse. “I do.”

Jim… doesn’t really have a response for that. He supposes it’s a knee-jerk response to laugh, rough and grating as it is, but the idea of someone actually, for-real giving a shit about him out here. And, well. He’s a mess of dried blood, stale alcohol, and one black eye. One? Two? So. You know. It’s funny.

The cotton ball of antiseptic, when it comes, startles the mirth out of him. Jim jerks back and thumps his head against the wall. “Fuckin _ow_.”

The man’s scowling, and it’s a shame really. Or a benefit. Jim can’t really tell. He wasn’t really prepared for this guy, and so he looks, because if not for the cell floors and walls and all of it, if not for that, or the rumpled way that he’s wearing his shirt and jeans, Jim’d call him dressed up.

“Wow,” he says, focusing on the guy’s face instead of the burning sting that is his own right now. 

Because he has bronze skin and dark hair and hazel eyes. And has his shirt buttons undone to the third one. Why bother, is Jim’s question. And he has his sleeves pushed up baring solid forearms and thick wrists. Doc’s knuckles are unscuffed, but they are bony. 

“I don’t think I can afford this.”

The man’s eyeroll is a full body thing, as it turns out, and his scowl deepens, but the careful treatment doesn’t stop, becomes gentler, if possible, when Jim involuntarily hisses as the cotton ball goes over the bridge of his nose. The sharp smell of antiseptic registers then, filtering through the blood and gunk, and it brings with it memories of growing up and getting busted up.

“You can quit that,” Jim says. 

“I’m a doctor, just--”

Jim’s pulls away. “So? I’m good enough to sort my own shit out, y’know. I'm here every weekend, right?”

The doc sets his jaw. His gaze flicks down and back up. “Just… Let me help.”

It takes him a minute, but Jim settles to glower, hands closing and opening against his thighs, blunt fingernails scraping over his jeans. Doc sighs and throws down the cotton ball that’s now mottled rust and brown instead of white, and Jim takes a breath.

“You know the date?” Doc goes.

“Huh? Yeah.”

“Don’t say yes,” he says. “What is it?”

“June 3rd. Why?”

“You feel drowsy?”

“No,” Jim says. “Why?”

“Headache?”

“No--”

“Nauseated?”

“ _No_.”

The doc stares hard, and Jim grits his teeth, about to shove off when Doc goes, “Hold still,” and sets his fingers over the swollen bridge of Jim’s nose. 

Jim swears and whacks his head against the wall again.

“Goddamnit, would you _quit that_ before you concuss yourself. Your nose is broken,” Doc says. He still has his hands out. “I can set it now while we’re here, or you can wait until you see your own physician.”

“It’s fine,” Jim says.

“It’s broken.”

“Seriously, dude. It’s fine.”

“I’ll send you an invoice for my services later,” Doc says. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

There’s a pause. Doc still has his hands up, and Jim looks between them and his face.

“What’s your name,” Jim asks, finally.

“Leonard McCoy.”

He says it with his accent syrupy on McCoy, and it’s only because of the way it sounds that Jim goes, “Yeah. Alright. McCoy. Go on then.”

Leonard shifts and carefully sets his hands to Jim’s face once more. It’s easier to accept when he’s expecting it, but Jim’s shoulders still refuse to unlock. 

Leonard’s fingers are warm against the heat of Jim’s nose, and it’s all that Jim can do to keep still against the slight pressure of the touch. He sniffs.

“Careful,” Leonard says, low and even, a little belated like he’s concentrating too much on the task to notice what he’s saying.

Jim fists his hands on his knees and sets his focus on Leonard’s face, concentrates on the crease between Leonard’s eyebrows as he feels the area. The cartilage scraping together turns Jim’s stomach, takes him back to the bar and the lights, and how the other guy had struck out at him instead, and how he’d skidded back against one the tables and went over to the cheering and jeers.

Jim’s fingers flex. His skin is too hot even though he’s shed his jacket. 

It could be Leonard, too, up close enough now for Jim to realise the smell of cologne. Something woody and vaguely familiar, a tang of something overly sweet.

Or it could be the heat of the day collected in the cell, the sun having warmed the station outside in. 

“Okay,” Leonard says. “Okay. You’re gonna have to keep real still now.”

“Okay.”

“On the count of three.”

“Okay.”

“One. Two--” 

The snap of everything set back is a feeling more than it is a sound. It’s like getting punched all over again and Jim’s hands lock onto his thighs to keep himself from striking back.

“Holy shit,” Jim goes, breathless. “Holy shit you _asshole_.”

“I’m sorry.” Leonard honestly sounds it, too.

Jim’s grip doesn’t loosen. His nose throbs hotly. His entire face throbs hotly. “Am-- Am I bleeding?”

“You're good.”

“Jesus,” Jim says. 

His eyes water and pain continues to spike down along his spine, lifting the hairs at the back of his neck and down his arms.

“Should heal straight enough,” Leonard says.

“Right. Okay,” Jim says. “Sure. Whatever. Thanks. I think. Hope the bill isn’t going to be the same thing.”

Leonard shakes his head and he gives him a long look, before he puts the first aid kit back together and sets it neatly beside the bars. 

Jim watches him do it with his fingers dug into his thighs, and is disgusted with himself that he finds the neatness of it all endearing because his face is agony disguised as his face. The first night out he’s had in ages and then this. He can’t believe it.

There’s silence in the cell after that, nothing but Gerald’s groovy tunes leaking through the bars. Eventually the pain fades to a faint echo of his heartbeat that’s a little easier to ignore. He checks to see if he’s bleeding, just in case.

Jim looks to Leonard, leaned up against the wall, hands loosely clasped now, head tipped back to show the line of his throat, the sharp jut of his Adam’s apple. He’s visibly sweating, skin gritty, slick looking. Shadows collect in hollow of his throat and light gleams along his collarbones. Jim looks. Looks away. Looks again. His throat is too dry to swallow.

“So, I’m confused,” Jim says when the silence and the lingering heat is too much to bear. 

“With your perfect competence and all--” Jim gestures to his face. “What are you doing here anyway?”

Leonard doesn’t even bother opening his eyes. “Thought you weren’t talking to me.”

“I’m not.”

“What are you in for?” Jim asks again.

“What does it matter, kid,” Leonard shifts where he sits, like he’s trying to find a comfortable patch of concrete floor. “Ended up here in the end anyway. Assume I deserved it.”

“C’mon, really? That’s it? Where’s your sense of fun and adventure?”

Leonard opens his eyes to give him a look. Even with an entire cell between them, the shadows cast by the walls, it’s easy to to see Leonard’s face. Reading it is harder. The closest Jim gets is exasperation and embarrassment, maybe, picked up from the hard press of Leonard’s mouth before he goes, “It’s what got me here in the first place.”

Jim holds out his arms. “Welcome to Iowa.” 

Leonard snorts and leans back, closing his eyes again.

The conversation’s over, but there’s something about it that feels like a win for Jim to be disappointed, and he grins at Leonard though he doesn’t see it, and settles in to wait it out.

The morning officer is someone Jim knows. Alvarez, who’s tall and dark, and who had graduated a couple of years before Jim at the same school. 

Alvarez opens the bars, the metal rattling loud on the tracks. “Mornin’, Jimmy. Long time no see, kid.”

“I missed your face,” Jim says as he steps out. “You should bring it ‘round more.”

Behind him there’s a very quietly muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

“Speaking of faces,” Alvarez says. “I called by Vickers’s mama before I came in.”

Jim winces. “As undeserved as my ass being in here is, I’d still prefer this over whatever’s going to come of that.”

Alvarez grins at him, shrugs, then glances over Jim’s shoulder into the cell. “Bathroom’s down the hall if you want it. Paperwork at the front, and then you’re free to go.”

“Thanks, Officer.” Leonard says, and Jim turns to smirk at him and Leonard frowns back, clearly confused.

Fifteen minutes later finds Jim in carpark outside with both hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. It’s eight in the morning and the sun burns against the skin of his neck, reflects hard off the ground and buildings. His sunglasses hang off his shirt. He’d put them on if it wouldn’t hurt so much. Least it’d hide his eyes.

The day smells of a dust and a heat that’s so intense that it’s a taste as much as it’s a weight. But that could also be from last night, too. Hard to tell sometimes. 

Jim shoves the toe of his shoe into the gravel of the carpark, watches the dust puff up. Then he squints down the length of the road, where it cleaves the entire town in an almost perfect half, and he sees the hardware store, the diner, the post office. There’s a cafe right at the very end there, nothing more than an off-white building in the hazy distance, where the coffee is burned only half the time so it counts as fancy.

The door opening behind him makes Jim look back. “You want breakfast?”

Leonard pauses, and the moment goes long before he says, “Sorry. I’ve got somewhere to be.”

Jim ducks his head. Nods. And looks up again down the long straight line of the main road. The silence is almost long enough for Jim to think that Leonard’s reconsidering, that he’s going to take up the offer. But then the sound of crunching gravel knocks the legs out from under the poorly established hope.

“Hey,” Jim calls out. “What were you in for?”

Leonard stops and looks back, and for a second, Jim’s certain that’s gonna be it. That it’ll be one of those things he’ll think back and wonder the missed possibilities, maybe turn it into a story he’ll break out at parties, _I was stuck in the overnight cell with this guy, right_ \--

But then Leonard goes, a little shamefaced, like he’d been caught a second time. “Disturbing the peace.”

Then, as if he can’t help but spit the rest of it out, “I spilt a beer on some guy at the bar.”

It takes a few seconds for Leonard’s response to sink in, and for the implications to follow through: The bar. The two guys in a heated argument. One of the guys stumbling back into Vickers, who’d shoved out of his stool and tried to lay into the guy only to miss. Jim diving into the fray to help out...

And Jim laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Talk to me about McKirk and/or Chris Pine.


End file.
